


Hell Rests in 221B

by zoeyael



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John as a dead man, M/M, Mrs. Hudson as the Grim Reaper, Sherlock as Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 05:47:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zoeyael/pseuds/zoeyael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson died after returning home from Afghanistan and has a very psychedelic adventure with the man meant to send him on his way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Boys, you've got another one!" Ms. Hudson yelled from the bottom of the staircase that connected 221 A and B. Her hand held as much shirt as she could grab off the man beside her-a surprising amount considering how small her hands were.

"Toss him up." Sherlock said tonelessly from his flat, the sound traveling fine-inferring the door was left open.

"I'm not  _your_  grim reaper," Ms. Hudson put the hand that wasn't filled with shirt onto her hip. "I'm-"

"Yes, you're  _the_ grim reaper." A sigh sounded throughout the building. "Just send him up, will you?"

Ms. Hudson released her grip on the man, his face coming out of the shadows of the doorway. He had sandy, worn hair. His age was unseeable, he could be in his mid fifties or late twenties, whatever his age, him and his face had gone threw hell.

He stepped forward to the beginning of the staircase, his previously twitching hand dropping dead along his side. A quick glance back at Ms. Hudson revealed her to be tediously picking at her grey-purple nails, her back against the door.

Though he previously seemed unresolved about being there he now clamped down his jaw a started up the stairs. Each step he took seemed to make him more and more uneasy, but he continued, strong.

After only six steps he heard a violin start to play. The music reminded him of the feeling he often got when he was on lookout in the army. It was always very late nights that he was out of the tents. Danger seemed to be the waxy seal keeping the dirt to their skin. He used to drag a man out with him every time. He never learnt the other man's name. Afghanistan is no place to make friends. The man would hum songs. They all seemed exceedingly morbid, but they made everyone happier.

He finally reached the open door that the music was coming out of. He saw mess everywhere. Body parts on window seals, old bones all pointing to a worn skull on the mantle in the farthest wall from the door way. Curly black hair seeped over the face of the almost-man slumped in the chair facing the door.

"Name,  _please."_  Sherlock said  _please_ as though it stirred a tif he had with someone. The music never stopped.

"John Watson." His voice came as though he was discussing where to order food from. It surprised him.

"Mmm. Sit." He stopped playing. " _Please."_

John walked over, his limp and shaking hand returning. He sat, his back collapsing into the chair.

" _How?"_  Sherlock said with distaste, his voice somehow remaining bored.

"How what?"

"How. Did. You. Die." A scowl flashed from underneath his untamed hair, but quickly went.

"Shot after returning home from Afghanistan, by a bloody kid." John chuckled. "Is this the after life?"

"No. Ms. Hudson brings you here, I decide if you go…poof, or serve me in my undead police force." Sherlock started to fiddle with his violin.

"Was that a joke?" John straightened his back.

"It was an idea. Any remaining life in you will disappear into the atmosphere. Sometimes I use people, but I won't you." He flicked his hair away from his eyes revealing his cheekbones and pale eyes. "Also, I know one of your army mates killed you."

"How?"

"No 'kid' would have access to a gun in this city, and because of your height I can assume you've always been touchy about judging people on age, so you must have sincerely disliked him. Recently returned soldiers are able to disarm a single adult thug, much less a decidedly young one. Therefore, said kid is fellow soldier, most likely taller than you, but not by much and held a grudge against you. Friend of his dies while you were on duty?"

"Fantastic." John's pupils dilated but Sherlock was back fiddling with his violin.

They sat in silence for a few moments. A text alert sounded twice from Sherlock's bathrobe pocket, but it took till the third for him to take it out. He tapped it a few times and sighed. He jumped up from the chair with a speed unimagined and rushed about the flat grabbing scarves and shoes and finally a large black coat. John sat paralyse in the seat as Sherlock disappeared out the door. Three loud steps down, then back up, and his black curls reappeared int he door way.

"Will you come?" He asked.

"Why me?" John pouted.

"I could use a doctor. I won't work with the one there."

"I'm not a do-"

"Surgeon. Whatever. Are you coming?"

"Okay."

Sherlock ran out the door and John wondered why he had said that. He got up regardless and ran after Sherlock, his gun tucked firmly in his waistband. One thought went threw his head,  _I'm forgetting something._


	2. Chapter 2

_Oh._ John thought. _That's what I forgot. I'm dead, running around London with the guy that's going to evaporate me and I've no idea where we're going._

"John, can you identify that red blood-like liquid to the incredulous Detective Lestrade? John?" Sherlock broke his scowl at Lestrade to looking questioningly at John. John couldn't help but stare back. Sherlock's features that had looked so dead previously seemed to gain a element of humanity. His cheeks were stained pink, his breathing audible. 

"I do believe that is blood, Detective Lestrade." John said.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" A tall, tan black-haired officer said curtly.

"I'm Doctor John Watson. Sherlock-" 

"Oh, Sherlly here dragged you along? Are you a prostitute he hired for the Fernta case?" She said loudly.

"Ivy, your input is always valued. I don't need prostitute seamen anymore. Mine was-"

"Girls, please!" Lestrade yelled. "Dead lawyer on the floor, do you mind if we figure this out, then the doctor over there?"

"Yes, of course. It was his sister. Check his deleted text messages and compare it to his sister's chipped nail. Is that all?"

"Yes Sherlock. Thank you. Can we talk to your doctor?" 

"No." Sherlock grabbed John's sleeve and whisked him out of the tiny white tent that covered the dead body. He dragged John behind a dumpster, and suddenly the life that filled him previously drained out and was replaced with a maniacal grin.

"Give me your hand."

"Wha-why?"

"Give it!" 

"No!"

Sherlock shoved his hand down between the crack left between their sides and fished around for John's hand. Once he got it it he laced is fingers into John's, stood up, (dragging a upset John upward with him) and ran the direction he came.

"Where are we going Sherlock?" John screamed at the back of Sherlock's head.

"You're not going anywhere other than Nowhere, don't worry!" Sherlock dragged John down two close cutting corners and stopped abruptly in front of a 30 foot tall sigh reading, "Welcome to Nowhere, where you can go to Everywhere but all ways end up in Somewhere!" A bright yellow smiley face was wearing off in the bottom corner, three shots lining the mouth. 

"It's mostly for show, they don't get many people here, and when they do they try to confuse them as much as possible." Sherlock, finally looked at John's face, and seeing him stuck staring at the smiley face, explained it's origin.

"When I first came here I was fourteen, bored, and with a yellow spray can. Things escalated and eventually when Ms. Hudson got too old to be dragging dead souls around they put a place in for me."

"I didn't believe in any of this." John ran his hand threw his hair.

"If an alien were to come to our Earth from a planet devoid of leaders and authority; he would have the same response. This way, John." Sherlock went around the sign, leading John straight into a large, domed building.

They walked down a long formal looking hall with pictures lining the wall of different backgrounds. It took them several minutes of searching and seemingly morphing halls until they got to a wooden and old looking door. Smoke rose from the bottom and smelled of old roses and tobacco. Sherlock knocked twice on the door, grabbed the doorknob and slided the door to the left. 

When they walked in they saw a small man in various red and brown cloaks burning dried roses and heavily smoking. His dust brown hair rose messily from under the cloaks and seemed to be bobbing mysteriously in time to unheard music.

"Tea anyone?" The odd man screamed and tossed a full kettle-with what seemed like mint-orange-dirt tea at the two men.

"George do you have the biscuits for Ms. Hudson?" Sherlock screamed back.

"They're in the usual spot!" George yelled.

"This is the first time I've come to get anything from you, there is no usual spot!"

"Not my problem!" George ruffled around in his cloaks, eventually dropping the burning rose and cigarette into a basin of water and popped back out.

"The door was supposed to open outward." He turned his head and scowled at Sherlock, revealing tight lips and a wrinkly face. "You always open it wrong." After that he seemed to just disappear.

"This is very Alice in Wonderland-like." John huffed.

"What do you mean by that?" Sherlock asked off handedly while he started to search the room.

"A man in a cloak smoking, a unusually long hall way. It just reminds me of Alice's adventures." John started to pick at the leather on his jacket.

"Firstly he was wearing _cloaks._ Plural. And-Ahaha!-" Sherlock seemed to have found what he was looking for. "And secondly, neither of us are mad. If anyone is, it'd be you. You've hardly said anything and you seem to be itching to take out your gun." Sherlock grabbed a handful of George's cigarettes and stuffed them into his jacket pocket while John scowled at him. Sherlock quickly crossed the small room and carried John along in his hurried nature. They started down the hall walking faster than before.

"What was the point in that?" John grabbed Sherlock's arm to keep him from going away. "Why am I here?"

"I needed to pick stuff up for Ms. Hudson. Just some fancy biscuits. You're here because you were useful, so thanks." Sherlock shook his arm free and went out of the door. They walked out and were back at 221B with no sign of the building they were just in.

"So what now?" John was looking around, unsure why the disappearing building didn't freak him out more.

"You need a place to live, right?" Sherlock had led him into his flat.

"Depends on where I'm going. I imagine now that I'm dead that I can't go back to my old flat." John decided to sit down in the chair he was in earlier while Sherlock rustled through the flat.

"I'll be right back." Sherlock dashed downstairs and returned a second later with Ms. Hudson at his side. He grabbed the biscuit tin and handed it to her then sat across from John.

"Right then. So Sherlock tells me that you need a place to stay. There's a room upstairs, if you need one." Ms. Hudson said.

"Why would I-" 

"You could help me on cases. The police are more likely to listen to me if I have someone like you confirming what I say." Sherlock interrupted.

"Right. So how am I supposed to exist with the living if I'm not? I have a bullet hole in my chest and nothing other than what I'm wearing." John got up to leave.

"John, stay. I can get Molly to fix you up and any clothes or belongings you should need will be in the room." Sherlock stood up in effort to persuade him. "Baker Street is a wonderful place, regardless of the state of your life." 

"Molly is a mortician, isn't she?" John rubbed his temple thoughts of _why me_ and _what am I doing_ crossing his mind.

"Well yes, but that doesn't mean-"

"Fine I'll move in." John turned back around and sat in his chair.

"Right then. Here is your rental agreement." Ms. Hudson handed him some papers and walked to the door. "Sherlock next time you get me biscuits remember to make sure they actually are _biscuits."_ She took the tin into the kitchen and headed back down.

John stared at Sherlock, who was picking through the tin, it's contents hidden from view. At this point John decided to take a better look at his new home. In places where most people have pictures of friends or family Sherlock had framed cases that John assumed he had solved.

After about ten minutes of being ignored by Sherlock he decided to look at his new room. He walked up the stairs and through a door, entering into what seemed like an entirely new flat. It was a very open space, a bed in the far corner and a desk opposite it. The loft had a living room and bar-kitchen hyrid with the only window in the area spraying light onto it. 

He left the doorway and sat on the bed, very impressed by it all. After a moment he got up and look at the closet, jumpers, jeans and shoes in his size filling it.

"Fuck."

John, feeling too overwhelmed to continued standing colapsed on the bed and fell asleep. A dreamless, quiet night filled the loft.


	3. Chapter 3

"Good morning, John."

"Wha-fuck!" John hit his head on the wall behind his head in surprise.

"Please get dressed." Sherlock stood up from his squatting position by John's new bed and turned on the television, sitting in the sofa provided.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

"I was waking you up."

"Get dressed."

John sighed and went over to the dresser, all embarrassment over getting undressed around others lost in the army. "Why am I getting dressed?"

"I'm taking you over to Molly. Then to a crime scene." Sherlock tossed his curls to the side using his hand and bent his long back into a triangle, resting his arms on his knees while watching a crime-drama.

John selected a white jumper, a pair of jeans and some shoes. "If almost every thing you do involves death, why do you watch something obsessed with death?"

"Death is a magnificent thing. There are so many ways to go or have someone go, so many ways to live through it or with it. It many forms have fascinated me for years, no matter the place or time." He turned it off, satisfied with whatever conclusion he or it came to and turned around to John. "Ready to go?"

"Uh. Yah. Do I need to eat anything? I am dead, so I don't see any use in it." 

"You can't process anything so it'll just mould until Molly gets it out. So don't. You should see her weekly to fix the rigamortis, though." Sherlock walked out, allowing John to follow.

After getting down the first set of stairs Sherlock ducked into the main flat doorway and grabbed his coat, then thundered down the steps again and out the door where he called a cab. He got in and John followed.

"So. Molly's then?"

"Yes."

"Who is Molly?"

"A mortician."

"Right."

John started to stare out the window, mirroring Sherlock's moodiness. This caused Sherlock to look at him, or rather stare. A minute pasted before John looked back. Sherlock squinted his eyes in response and John just stared back.

"John, you should know-"

"How do you go between looking dead and alive?" John interrupted.

"I didn't expect you to say that." He sighed. "It's something that was granted to me when I took on the job. It's mostly just to keep from decaying and keep people from freaking out."

"Will I ever be able to do that?"

"No. I died for the job. You just got killed."

They sat in silence for awhile longer.

"John, you can't eat or have sex. Or a majority of things. You're dead and that would cause some problems."

"I kno-"

"Have you ever seen torchwood?"

"Yes."

"Think Owen. You can't do anything he can't."

"Got it. Do you think the cabby can hear us?"

"No." 

They decidedly sat in silence until they pulled up at St. Bart's. They went through a reception area then several halls until they reached the morgue, where a mousey woman was searching for a bullet in a dead body.

"Good morning, Molly."

"Oh!" Molly jumped up in surprise. "Hello, Sherlock. Who's your friend?"

"Doctor John Watson. He needs a bullet wound fixed up." Sherlock stepped aside to show John behind him.

"Um. Are you dead or alive?" She walked out from behind the autopsy table, and went over to the doctor.

"Dead, I guess." 

"Could you come over?" Molly walked over to a empty autopsy table and motioned for John to sit on it. She pulled a small table with the usual utensils for her job to her side and selected scalpels and forceps. "Um. Right. Could you? Uh."

"My shirt? Yah." He took off his shirt, a very bloody gauze wrapped around his stomach, which Molly removed, causing blood to spill over onto the jumper in John's lap.

"Oh! Sorry, Sherlock." John explained.

"It's your jumper, bleed on it all you want." Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I'm going for coffee. Anyone want anything?"

"No thank you, Sherlock." Molly answered.

"I'm working on being nice like you asked." He added.

"I didn't-"

"Implied, fine." Sherlock sulked out the door, and left John and Molly in silence for a moment.

"He's a bit sensitive, eh?"

"Um. Yes. I suppose so." Molly's ears flashed red.

"How long have you known him?" John pursued.

"Since I started working here." Molly flicked her eyes up to John's then back to his bullet wound. "He got the last mortician fired for, as he put it, 'being a imbecile and compromising everything he touched.' He tended to eat over-flowing sandwiches while doing his work. It was actually rather impressive." 

"Oh. I had a mate like that in the army."

"You were in the army?"

"Yup. I actually got this," He pointed at his bullet hole. "as a indirect cause of it."

"Oh really? What happened?"

"I got into a bad spot with an already mentally unstable guy and when we got back he decided that everything that happened was my fault, and shot me."

"Oh. There was a case like that of a husband and wife who were kidnapped and when they got back the husband went crazy and stabbed her in the heart. He ran, but Sherlock got him. He was upset that he was called in for something as trivial as that." She chuckled, causing some of John's blood to spray into her lab coat. 

"Oh!"

"Sorry!" John chuckled out.

Molly finally got the bullet out and placed it on the tray beside her. She took a putty-like substance and placed it over the hole.

"Right. If it falls off, it means we need to drain you of any blood left in your body, so come in before you soak everything. Also, you should still sleep just because your brain is still working so it needs the rest." Molly stood up and started to clean everything up.

"I would have been able to do this myself, you know."

"Yes, Sherlock said you were a doctor, so I thought it peculiar that he had you come in."

"I was nice meeting you, though. You're very kind." He smiled a large smile, his bright teeth clashing with his sun-earned tan.

"Oh, thank you!" She smiled in response, and stood awkwardly for a moment. "Sherlock usually waits outside the hospital, you should go meet him."

"Bye, then."

"Bye."

He walked out the door and down the halls again, finally letting his deadness sink in.


End file.
